Living in New York is like being inside of a Guns N Roses song.

Barack Obama thinks he received a shellacking? Try having lived in New York—or anywhere on the east coast, for that matter—these past three months.

There was a blizzard every week, and when it wasn’t snowing there were ice cold, tundra-ic winds that clawed at our sensitive skin and made our pores the size of golf balls. It’s nearly pointless to wash your face in New York during the winter.

It was so cold and miserable that my only solace was felt from watching other things suffer—mainly small children and dogs. Every time I walked down the street and watched a dog raise its paws from the burning sensation they feel when salt on the sidewalk lodges itself between the pads on their feet, my chapped lips widened into a small smile. “Ha—sucker dog! Take that!” Like Richard the Third, winter has transformed me into a monster.

I like kids, but I like kids even more when they have an endless stream of boogers pouring out of their noses and they don’t have tissues so they wipe it on the sleeves on their jackets. I like that the parents have to deal with this.

The unstoppable coldness gave slightly—very, very slightly—the latter half of February. At the month’s end—”the month of Mondays,” as Garfield called it—the worst but shortest month has closed with a rainstorm that left my sambas and pants sopping wet by the time I got to the office this morning. Weather outlets predict a sunny 45-degree day tomorrow, but I don’t believe it. If February is a vampire, March is his whorish, unpredicatable bride.

March sucks because, “warm in the sun, cold in the shade” is the most uncomfortable weather on the planet. But 120 days of summer will be here before we know it. At least five of them are guaranteed to be nice.